


Stratagem

by maebyrutherford (maeberutherford)



Series: The Right Hand [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Light Angst, Parent Death, Past Relationship(s), Politics, Post-Canon, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 22:33:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4683803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maeberutherford/pseuds/maebyrutherford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Chantry holds a grand ball to demonstrate alliances with Empress Celene and King Alistair in the fight against a dangerous cult, and the event holds a connection for Cullen.</p>
<p>  <a href="http://verseynineone.tumblr.com/post/126943689173/okay-so-maebyrutherford-is-writing-this-amazing">Click here for a pic of Cullen’s ceremonial armor, courtesy of the fantastic verseynineone</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Stratagem

“You cannot be serious,” Cassandra proclaimed, leaning forward on the sunburst throne, her voice reverberating off of the stone walls. “A ball? Here?”

“I assure you, I do not jest,” The Left Hand said, his voice measured but pleasant. The elf squared his shoulders and clasped his hands behind his back; even with his small stature, he always carried a large presence in the room.

“Cullen, are you hearing this nonsense?” she asked, arching a brow.

“Yes, I am standing right here.” Cullen couldn’t help but be slightly amused by her reaction, even if he hated formal affairs as much as she did.

Elan continued. “My sources tell me there is growing concern among the people about these Disciples of Anders. You’ve heard the reports of their attacks throughout Orlais and Ferelden, yet nobody is able to identify them, and they disappear without a trace. They are no longer being viewed as an inconsequential fringe cult. Many have the opinion that we aren’t doing enough.”

“The Inquisition has made it their top priority,” Cullen interjected. “And the people know we have our Seekers working with them to flush them out.”

Elan shook his head. “It is no longer enough. This organization is clearly growing in number and resources, we cannot allow another war to blossom. I’m already getting reports of ex-templars taking it upon themselves to hunt down these Disciples; thankfully none of them have succeeded. The Inquisition doesn’t have the authority it once did now that we have a Divine. The Chantry must take charge and enlist Empress Celene and King Alistair’s assistance, and what better way to show that we are truly a united front?”

“We can make a public announcement,” Cassandra argued. “I can make a speech to the people; invite the grand clerics. Have the Empress and King stand with me, if they must. A ball seems like frivolous nonsense in the wake of what we are dealing with. A waste of time, energy and coin.”

“Regarding a gala, I agree that our time could be better spent,” Cullen said. “But have we even considered the implications of increasing our efforts? The Chantry hunting down mages leaves a bad taste in my mouth, however despicable the acts of the Disciples may be. We’ve worked so hard to affect true change, which is why we are letting the Inquisition handle this cult. To take the lead now, it could undo much of what we’ve accomplished. People may see it as a witch hunt, a throw back to the Chantry of old.”

The elf’s black eyes fixed on Cullen’s. “I do not believe they will. This group does not discriminate between mages and non-mages when they kill. All my intel tells me that everyone wants this group brought to justice as soon as possible. People are terrified of another war, just as we were enjoying some peace. They are looking to the Chantry to act, and we can do so with the most powerful people in Thedas at our side.”

Cullen considered Elan’s point. If the people were truly calling for a show of action, mage and non-mage alike, then it was the Chantry’s duty to answer that call. Elan wasn’t the type to press for anything that Cassandra was against unless he truly felt it was important, and besides, he couldn’t recall a time when the Left Hand had ever received faulty information.

Elan reached into his mail and pulled out several letters. “I’ve taken the liberty of reaching out to the aforementioned parties; all agree that this is the best way to demonstrate our collaboration. I already have dates that work best for them; that is, if you agree to it, Your Holiness.”

Cassandra sighed. “If it truly is the will of the people, and you believe this will help assure them, then I suppose I do not have much of a choice. For the record, I do not disagree with asking the monarchs for assistance, just this silly idea of a ball. Why people place so much importance on dancing and eating rich foods in ridiculous outfits, I will never understand.”

Anyone who didn’t know Elan may not have even noticed the faint hint of a smile on his lips. “We all know the Orlesians’ penchant for such events, but I’m afraid your adventure in Halamshiral when you were with the Inquisition has made them de rigueur in Ferelden as well.”

Cullen and Cassandra exchanged exasperated looks.

“Wonderful,” she said drily.

****

Divine Victoria had completely entrusted Elan to handle the planning and execution of the ball. Despite his humble alienage upbringing, the Left Hand had developed a refined taste during his days as a bard, and that flair for the exquisite tempered with Chantry humility was on display in the grand cloister.

The marble columns were tastefully decorated with red and black velvet banners, punctuated with Orlesian, Fereldan, Inquisition and Chantry heraldry. Lush floral arrangements were scattered throughout, a temporary wood floor had been laid on the grass for dancing, and a string quartet played songs from both countries. Servants wove their way through the assorted clergy, nobles and other important guests carrying wine and finger foods that everyone besides the masked Orlesians seemed to be enjoying. Cullen noted that the guards were stationed where they should be, heaviest near the dais they had constructed especially for the event. Arranging the proper security had been his number one priority.

He wore his ceremonial armor, the white and gold metal gleaming in the light of the numerous lanterns, his red cloak adorned with golden feathers across the shoulders skimming the floor when he walked. As much as he disliked fussing over his appearance, he did have to admit that wearing such finery once in a while had a certain appeal.

“Is it sacrilegious to say that you look lovely?” Cullen murmured to Cassandra, who was seated on his left. She really did; the formal black robes complimented her olive complexion.

She adjusted her habit, fighting back a smile while a blush spread across her cheekbones. “Thank you, but your charms do not work on me. I’d rather be giving a sermon that sit through this.”

“You have to admit, this is much less pretentious than the Winter Palace. I might even say it’s downright pleasant. Not one person has grabbed my bottom.”

“Hm, maybe you are right. The cloister  _does_ look very nice, and the music is lovely.” She turned to Elan, who was decked out in his finest leathers, made of a cream snofleur and topped with a deep navy cloak. “Where is the Inquisitor? She is late.”

Elan opened his mouth to respond when they heard her name being announced. Everyone at the table rose as she approached.

“Wow,” King Alistair said to his right. Queen Elissa gave him a quick jab with her elbow.

“Simply  _lovely_ ,” Empress Celene crooned, with Briala nodding in approval.

“Inappropriate,” Cassandra muttered, her eyes narrowing.

Tara, of course, looked stunningly beautiful, eliciting murmurs from the crowd as she passed. She wore a long gown of blood-red velvet that was all at once modest and scandalous; it had a high neck, long sleeves and a closed back, but the fabric clung to her upper body like a second skin until it flared out just under her hips, leading down to a short train that swept along the floor as she moved. Her hair was plaited along both sides of her head and tied into a low bun, her makeup simple but elegant.

His temper flared as he watched her say her hellos, working her way down the long table. He hadn’t forgotten how she had treated Sylvie back in Honnleath.

“Hello Cullen,” she said when she reached him, her voice much huskier than it had been with the others.

“Inquisitor.” He gave her the most cursory of hand kisses, then stepped aside so she could move on to Alistair, who seemed very eager to say hello. Her bottom brushed across his groin as she moved past, and he bit his tongue. He didn’t think about what her ass might feel like underneath the soft fabric, and he certainly didn’t think about what it looked like, bare and presented in front of him. 

Finally, the pleasantries were over and Tara took her seat beside Queen Elissa, his temporary insanity already fading. He emptied his wine goblet.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying so,” Alistair whispered, “but how did you manage to let  _that_  go?”

Cullen glared at the King, who he also considered a friend, although they were both equally terrible at staying in touch. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”

Alistair didn’t appear to have heard him. “You’re right; not the time or place. Tomorrow, you and me, we’ll spend some quality time together and you can fill me in.” He clapped Cullen on the back.

The evening wore on. Grand speeches were made about resolving to unite and eradicate the new threat to resounding applause. Dinner was served while the guests mingled and danced below, the wine flowed. Cullen found himself talking to Alistair most of the time, almost forgetting that Tara was even there, feeling more relaxed than he had in a long while. Elan had Cassandra’s ear, no doubt trying to keep her from retreating to her quarters.

The ex-templars were struggling to remember a dirty limerick they’d learned during their days in the monastery when the final course was set down in front of them.

“Oooh,” Alistair cooed. “This looks amazing.”

Cullen picked up his fork and looked at the dessert in front of him. A delicate mini pie sat on the plate, garnished with a small white flower. It looked to have some sort of berry filling with delicate leaves of dough artfully adorning the top. The smell was transcendent, a mixture of fruit, butter and something else he didn’t quite recognize, and it was still warm.

He took a bite, and suddenly he was transported to another time and place.

Cullen was ten, maybe eleven, sitting in a field of wildflowers with a picnic basket filled with baked goods, sinking his teeth into a juicy gooseberry turnover, some of the sticky liquid running down his chin. He was sure then that it was the best thing he would ever eat in his entire life. A girl with plaited pigtails was nearby, picking only the little white flowers while bragging that her father was the greatest baker that ever lived.

“I’m gonna let you in on a secret, but you can’t tell anyone!” she had said, kneeling down to whisper in his ear, even though there was no one else in sight. “The reason father’s pies are the best in the world, is because he uses-–”

“Rosemary,” Cullen said out loud.

“Wot?” Alistair asked through a mouthful of pie.

“These are  _gooseberry_  pies with  _rosemary_ in them,” Cullen said, almost laughing.

“Okaaay,” Alistair said after he swallowed, eyeing him warily. “I didn’t know you were one to get so excited about pastries.”

Cullen took another bite, just to be sure, marveling at the light and flaky texture of the buttery crust, the way the berries still held a little tartness, how the flavors perfectly played off of one another.

He stood from his chair, excusing himself to Alistair, and stepped over to Elan’s seat.

“Who is the chef?” he blurted out from behind him.

“What?” the elf said, twisting in his seat. “Oh, which one? We hired several.”

“The pastry chef.”

“I don’t recall her name. I had my assistants handle the details.”

_Her_.

“Cullen, what’s this about?” Cassandra asked.

“Nothing. If you’ll all excuse me, I have something I need to attend to.”

Cullen turned to leave when he felt a firm grip on his arm through his vambraces.

Cassandra pulled him close. “If you get to leave, then I get to leave,” she said in a low voice.

Cullen quickly kissed the back of her free hand. “I really must go, I’ll explain later, I promise.”

“Ugh, fine.” She released him. “Whatever it is, it had better be good.” She sat back in her grand chair and crossed her arms.

His heart was racing but he didn’t know why – maybe it was all the wine –  all he knew was that he had to get to the kitchen immediately. The honor guards nodded as he passed and when he reached the kitchen door, he pushed it open so hard that he startled the staff.

“Sorry. Have you seen the pastry chef? The one that was hired for the ball?”

There were some blank looks and shrugs.

“A woman? Tall, lots of hair?”

A plump cook jerked her thumb behind her. “Think I saw her go that way. Through the back door.”

“Thank you.” He skittered through the chaotic kitchen and stepped outside.

At first all he saw were piles of rubbish, a couple of guards and someone smoking a pipe. Then he noticed a figure off to the side, illuminated by the moonlight. A woman, wearing a long apron and some kind of head wrap that she pulled off in one motion, freeing thousands of curls that sprang outward before falling down her back.

He took a few steps toward her. “Good evening, Ms. Forester.”

She turned and smiled, not looking altogether surprised.

“Hello, Cullen.”

By the time he reached her, he thought his heart was going to explode out of his chest. He blamed the copious amounts of food and drink and sitting on his rear for far too long.

He held out his arms. “May I?”

She laughed as she removed her apron and dabbed her brow with it. “Of course, though I must warn you, I smell like I’ve been in a kitchen and I’m drenched in sweat.”

“I don’t mind.”  They hugged, and he thought she smelled absolutely fine, like spices and day’s hard work.

She stood back and gasped. “You look absolutely resplendent in that armor. And here I am, looking like a damn scullery maid.”

He tried to look unimpressed. “If it makes you feel any better, it’s not very comfortable. And you look like you just made the best dessert I’ve had since, well, since I was a child.”

Her hand went to her face, her eyes wide. “You remembered?”

“When I took that first bite, the rosemary brought it all back. I knew it had to be yours. Dare I say you’ve done him a great justice.”

Her face fell. “Thank you. It was my way of honoring his memory.”

Cullen’s heart went out to her; it was getting quite the workout tonight. He reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. “Sylvie, I’m so sorry.”

A tear fell down her cheek and she quickly swept it away. “Thanks. I apologize for being so emotional, it happened recently. It was painless. A blessing, really.”

He gave her shoulder a light squeeze before releasing it. “He’s with the Maker now.”

She nodded. “Enough doom and gloom. What are you doing out here? Don’t you have a ball to attend?”

“Not anymore. Any moment the Most Holy will be retreating to her quarters.”

Sylvie looked concerned. “Is she in danger?”

“No. Well, yes, technically, she’s always in danger, but she is not fond of social events.”

She smirked. “Sounds like a woman after my own heart.”

He looked around at the trash heaps and wrinkled his nose. “Why don’t we continue this discussion somewhere a little more pleasant?”

Sylvie looked uneasy. “I don’t know, I still have to pack up and head back. Although, the old bat is here tonight, and I doubt she’s leaving any time soon. She can really tie one on.”

“I know a nice, quiet spot on the grounds. I also happen to know where they keep the best bottles of vintage, if you like that sort of thing.” He quirked an eyebrow.

“That is very much my sort of thing. Still, I don’t know…” She planted her hands on her hips and regarded him with friendly skepticism.

He felt a bit frustrated; what had he done that had given her pause? He was reminded of what it feels like to coax a frightened animal out of hiding. Suddenly a thought occurred to him, making him a bit sick to his stomach.

“I hope you don’t think…I would  _never_ …you know…I just wanted to  _talk_ , I hope you know that. If I’ve made you uncomfortable in any way, please forgive me.”

“What?” She squawked. “Oh Maker, no, it’s not that at all. It’s just…it’s complicated,” she sighed, crossing her arms and looking up at the sky. He watched her for a moment, noticing how her face turned a lovely shade of pale blue in the moonlight.

“Okay Rutherford,” she finally answered, just as he was about to apologize for the intrusion and bid her a good night. “You’re on.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been jumping forward in time but Part 5 will pick up where this left off!


End file.
